


Imperial Consort Russ AU

by purplekitte



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/pseuds/purplekitte
Summary: One size doesn't fit all





	1. Pack Hierarchy

Leman had fought at first, but when he gave in he didn’t do so half-heartedly or begrudgingly. He had been outdone, he had made a dominance challenge and lost, so there was no hesitation or shame in admitting it and showing his belly. You didn’t mess around giving mixed signals about this sort of thing, or things could escalate into a real, serious fight instead of display and that would hurt the pack.

The Emperor read this from his mind, the subconscious expectations and beliefs about how things should be. He knew this mind, knew it better than almost any other, but even so there was so much he hadn’t expected and so much that played out differently than he had imagined. Leman’s mind was unexpectedly alien in thought structure, all bright colours and scents and emotional impressions under the thin, carefully constructed layer of ‘how to communicate with humans’.

It was so easy to move with it, to communicate with Leman in the physical way that came naturally to him instead of trading words that were weak even if they were true. Words were things humans played with, and though he made an effort to live that way, they rang nowhere near as true as letting himself be pushed down and mounted.

Leman’s knuckles were white clenching his furs as the Emperor bit at the back of his neck, using just enough teeth to assert dominance but not hurt. Leman wasn’t fighting to submit, he was fighting to be pliant instead of bucking up into it. He hadn’t done this before because he’d never met anyone stronger, but now that he had it was as obvious it had to be this way as why he had to be on top with anyone else.

He was glad he’d found Horus when he’d been young, but things would be different with his other sons if Leman was any indication. They would meet as adults. The bond would still be there but it wouldn’t be familial in the same way. Leman didn’t need a father, he needed a gun and a direction to point it.

He pulled from Leman’s mind how he would do it, how he would behave when he took one of his longboat captains to bed, one of those men who had vowed to go with him to the stars even if they all died in the attempt. A warlord took in all tribute, but he gave generously to his own underlings, that was how fealty and economics worked. Hierarchy had been established, now it was time to give pleasure in return.

He reached around to pull Leman tighter against him and stroke him as he pressed his own hardness against his back. Leman moaned and ground against him, letting someone else set the pace but certainly not so overwhelmed he’d forgotten how sex went. He tilted his head to expose more of his neck and the Emperor ran his teeth over arteries but sucked there instead of ripping out his throat.

It would have been easy to remember the exact placement of nerve endings he remembered intimately even if Leman’s mind hadn’t supplied everywhere he already knew he liked to be touched. Leman practically melted under his hands, unable to touch in return except by rubbing back against him. There was nothing but eager urgings in his mind as he was taken, some simple biomancy relaxing his muscles to take away the discomfort.

He felt so good, the warmth and strength of his body certainly, but the mind with the force of a hurricane coming apart with pleasure even more so. It was easy to follow him to release as Leman came in his hand, voice and soul crying out with it.

Leman curled around him afterwards, not even trying to remember human social etiquette, and kept his head bowed and eyes downcast as he carefully and purposefully licked at the Emperor’s jaw and the corners of his mouth. He drew him into a kiss in return and let the wolf-man snuggle.

All in all, not exactly as planned but an acceptable outcome and well within parameters.


	2. One Size Doesn't Fit All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explanation for the Imperial Consort!Russ AU

Things go as canon during Unification and the earliest days of the Crusade, then the Emperor finds the second primarch, Russ. The Emperor decides/acknowledges things have gone pretty off base from His original plans and decides to rewrite those plans into ones that will work better instead of trying to force reality back into that shape. Russ is adult and doesn’t need a parent; he’s someone else’s son. So they end up screwing instead.

Subsequently, future primarchs are not brought in with “I’m your father, these are your brothers, have an army.” The Emperor has one son, Horus. Almost all the primarchs still fight and are generals/warriors, but for many of them it’s not just “not the only thing they do” so much as “not even the main thing they do.” There isn’t one mould and there isn’t a push to make them all fit that mould so much as there is to put them all to _their_ best use.

Much of the inspiration for this AU comes from a forum comment I once saw: “All in all, as all good tyrants, the Emperor fucked up when he thought he should lead and control all aspects of humanity. He was never a leader, he was a fucking scientist for christ sake. A brilliant geneticist and psyker, that's what he was. I can see he stepping up to it before finding the Primarchs, but once the 20 of them were found it was pretty obvious he should've shared power with them.” 

Guilliman, Dorn, Perturabo, and Fulgrim, for example, still have martial victories, but it’s not the first thing anyone would think of about them. These are the guys who build infrastructures, economies, functional societies, who are great administrators, who are patrons of art and innovation, of raising the standard of living. Considering their histories or aspirations, these are the people who can put together civilizations that are sustainable, that are by and large pleasant places for people to live, that lots of people would be falling over themselves wanting to join without a shot being fired.

Lorgar too, once the Emperor hashes out spiritual beliefs he should be preaching they can mutually live with, and Malcador. The Emperor’s amazing ability to make 50% of people want to worship Him and the other 50% of people want to go out and kill puppies just for the opportunity to give Him the middle-finger, is agreed to be somewhat disruptive to the long-term functioning of the Imperium. It’s pretty much universally agreed on that anyone else handles the people part instead, especially Lorgar, Fulgrim, Sanguinius, and Horus.

Besides getting therapy, Curze is working with the Arbites and the Assassins, not playing soldier. There’s a quote in some short story I don’t feel like looking up that what he’s actually good at is being a judge and working on an individual level, and he’s extremely bad at extrapolating to/dealing with problems at societal or planetary levels.

Meanwhile, Horus is out killing xenos. The Lion is, Khan is, Russ and Sanguinius, etc. Specific types of wars are directly towards the Legions best suited to them. Horus being appointed Warmaster comes as a surprise to no one, and is a title that’s more familiar to everyone by the point the Emperor withdraws entirely from even an advisory role in military affairs, one that has a lot more clearly defined powers and limits because civilian/administrative authorities have had a much larger role from earlier on instead of the expeditionary fleets suddenly feeling like the War Council used to run everything and now it’s getting sidelined.

There’s also less of an element of setting one brother over the others. “Brothers” and “family” simply aren’t the rhetoric being used. Most of them had parents and were happily adopted, and there’s no duality between homeworld adopted family versus Imperial blood family brought into it. It’s more “I suppose that guy’s also from the Primarch Project by the fact he’s a head taller to twice as tall as everyone else.” They’re not as close in various cases because they’ve never made a deep effort to the tune of “We are brothers, therefore we must try to get to know each other and get along”, but there’s less of an undercurrent of rivalry when they do interact. They’re not just apples and oranges as people, they’re also doing completely different things.

Dorn and Perturabo I imagine are very close in this AU. Perturabo never had “be my hammer” issues because he never got forced into that role in the first place as his “thing”. Instead, he and Dorn ended up working together a lot, and got used to each other and got through any initial misunderstandings or personality conflicts by getting thrown together over and over until they did.

Guilliman and Lorgar, for instance, don’t remotely get along as people, but their personality conflicts are much more subdued and mostly involve writing each other really passive-aggressively filled out requisition paperwork. No one’s ever tried to use them against each other. Nothing’s ever escalated.

The Emperor, during all of this, is working on the Webway, and has Magnus along helping from the beginning. This also means being able to keep a much closer eye on the Thousand Sons; not so much telling them to stop like Nikaea, but keeping them from doing any of the obviously stupid stuff that would be immediately obvious to anyone who knew the first thing about Chaos.

Getting back to Russ, he hasn’t changed that much from canon, but he’s put political situations a lot more often. He’s still the Emperor’s Executioner and one of the Imperium’s primary front-line generals and likes to play the barbarian warlords, but he also spends a lot of time advising the Emperor not to do stupid and/or terrible things. They also have sex. It’s fun. That’s like 90% of the entire thing. He spends a lot of time working with Malcador, who he deeply respects as the Emperor’s actual wife, the person who runs the household, while he’s just the lieutenant He’s fucking on the side. They’ve also pressured him back to be less of a racist hypocrite against psykers and to make a lot more compromises away from his Fenrisian values in favour of Imperial ones.

This is also the AU where I managed to write some Russ/Angron, something I’ve not been able to get to work other times I’ve tried it (I have a WIP of their meeting I’ll post eventually, but like most of my WIPs it stops right when they’re starting to have sex because at that point I got bored and wandered off). Basically, Russ teleports down with some of his guys, they fight beside Angron’s gladiator army, obviously they win, then they go back to the ship. Russ is totally chill about dealing with berserkers and feeds Angron and wraps him in blankets and convinces him to let the Emperor remove the Nails from him, and also works from the oppose direction to drag the Emperor into doing brain surgery. So Russ and Angron end up really good friends, which colours everything even as they get to know each other better and have any ideological conflicts they still have, and they bro-fist constantly and sometimes have sex.


	3. Collection of Snippets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emperor/Russ, Horus being scarred for life, Malcador being annoyed, Guilliman being even more annoyed at Lorgar, Angron/Russ [PG-13]

When people heard ‘Galatea’, they thought more of a III than a VI.

That, being like this, would have been a terrible idea. If the Emperor knew III, and he did, more than anyone, for all they were yet to meet, then his weakness was a need for reassurance, and a desire to be praised by others that lead to being a sycophant in turn.

Leman believed simply that it was any man’s right to speak his mind to his jarl. He liked affirmation as much as anyone, but he was complete in himself, without his confidence around external validation. Horus believed he was insubordinate, that he constantly pushed. It was more complicated than that. Leman was more self-aware, more calculating in social situations than he let on, even if everything he said was itself entirely genuine. He picked his times. He was keenly aware of the difference between a disagreement and a dominance challenge. He always followed orders when a final decision had been made no matter what he thought, not to mention he thought blowjobs were a great way to defuse the situation when his jarl did think he’d overstepped his bounds. At the same time, if he came to believe he could win, he would unhesitatingly make a true challenge, not out of hatred and malice, but because that was what you did if you were strong.

Not that Horus was disobedient or afraid to question, but he was too accustomed to how the Imperium waged war, the values as much as the strategies. Leman proved the use of drastically different opinions, usefully deeply tied to the Imperium mind, body, and soul.

Leman riled up Horus over military tactics because he thought it was funny. They eventually came to accords, both believing he’d won. Horus would have been aghast over their real arguments. _You’re a scientist, you idiot, a scholar of cells and sorcery, not a warlord, not an administrator. You can power through war, you can overwhelm minds temporarily, but it’s something you stepped up to. Step down from doing everything. Do you fear like a tyrant that you will be overthrown, like a weaver who grasps for every loose threads while the tapestry comes undone? I’m not making a challenge when advising you to share power. I’ll be your dog. Just let me be your general. Why did you create generals and statesmen and architects unless you meant to use at what we were made to be best at?_

That came naturally to Leman, delegating, not just from necessity, not even from trust, but from an easy comradeship with his men. He gave as freely as he gained, in power as in friendship. Young, naïve, too caught on being worthy of all the trust he was given without the bitter knowledge of failure, of how much needed to be sacrificed, in lives and nobility, for even the slim chance of victory.

Still, when he watched Horus and Leman make war, Son and Executioner, he could almost imagine the future he hinted at: generals fighting wars as best suited them, XVI and VI, I and XII; statesmen creating society, culture, making the trains run on time, XIII and VII, III and XVII; and so on, each to exactly his place, as their Emperor retreated with XV to construct his next and most vital gift to humanity. It was such a tempting new paradigm to switch to, and a switch was needed. Had been since the Scattering, truly. The twenty planned son-generals weren’t to be. One son. As for the rest, even he was continuously surprised for all the vast expanses of his knowledge. They were different men than expected no matter how well planned. Different men’s sons.

*

‘Come on, at your age you can’t be scandalised by your single-father dating again. You’re not a puppy with only your milk-teeth.’

He’d hoped the Emperor was telling Russ off after the fight he’d been in with Horus earlier. He’d had a hand in Russ’ braids, the kind of physical violence that was the only thing a barbarian like Russ would be able to understand, but then He’d used it to pull his face up into a passionate kiss, and His other hand was much lower, and... Horus had slapped his hand over his eyes as quickly as he could, which was pretty impressive considering he was a primarch, but unless he could turn back time he wasn’t sure how he could fix already being scarred for life.

‘Why did it have to be _you_?’ he groaned in despair.

Horus thought to himself that while his father was flawless, he now had to append that to mention _Except for His taste in men._

*

Leman Thengirsson was splayed across his favourite couch in Malcador’s office, his bawdy tale of exactly how many conquests he’d managed during the conquest of Tsalal occasionally interrupted by comments about ‘It was never economical for them to transport bulk goods over interstellar distance. We were always going to be able to under-cut prices on them on small-volume luxury good as well. Considering sector tariffs and their own tax laws, they’d actually be making twice as much profit per shipment if they joined out free-trade zone, which is what I told Premier Anstancia, the one with the really nice legs and hair that smelled great.’

‘I’m sure everyone would be much less impressed if they knew how much of being a barbarian warlord involved negotiating tax law with your vassals.’

Leman gave a mighty shrug, complicated by the fact he was already sunk into the stuffing and had no room to move. ‘I don’t see Horus’ need to have everyone love him when I could be underestimated. Besides, I can get mess around like a bull in a china shop and get them to cringe so you can move in and do the hard work.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

Leman grinned, fang showing under the pillow over his face. ‘Want me to make it up to you?’

‘Damn it, stop thinking about sex. That won’t work on me. I’m far too old for this nonsense. No. You are never allowed to do that on my desk, and you wouldn’t even fit under it. Scat, you.’

*

 _If you want twenty-five hundred tons of gold, don’t write me an impassioned essay about how the natives will feel when they see the sunlight hitting it. Fill out requisition form 239-C(ii) in the first place,_ Guilliman wrote succulently.

 _Would you have approved that?_ he received back by astropath.

 _No, but I’d have considered it._ Not for long, but he wouldn’t have automatically dismissed it on principle before even doing that.

_Stingy miser._

_Extravagant and wasteful._

_Please continue to build nothing but pre-fab housing until you have crushed the soul of humanity._

Guilliman told himself to stop writing back because he was letting whoever he was conversing with get to him too much. Who was it anyway? Most minor matters got handled by much lower-level functionaries unless someone was slapping very high-order codes on them, and who this annoying had gotten issued those?

 _As long as he or she never meets Fulgrim, everything will be just fine,_ he thought just a bit crossly and reached for his most formal seal to accompany his rejection stamp on forms in triplicate.

*

Everything about Russ felt right. From the moment he’d seen him--no, the moment before that, when he’d first heard him. The howl that had echoed through the mountains of Desh’ea louder than any crowd in the arenas, a feral savagery that called to like within Angron. Then the Wolves had descended and Angron and his gladiators had run forward as well to not miss out in the massacre, and only later had Angron come down from the Nails to the blood-soaked Russ slapping him on the back.

‘Done with your _berserkergang_? Then let’s eat.’

Angron had been ravenous, of course he would be after a fury even if they hadn’t been _starving_ all winter, but in the lethargy that came after the Nails he found himself being fed while he half-slept against the strange man’s shoulder.

Only after that, after he had seen his brothers and sisters bedded down in this barracks of theirs, in the sky, above the sky of Nuceria, did Russ drag him to meet his Emperor.

For a moment Angron thought he’d made a terrible mistake. Outside the arenas, there were the slave-soldiers of a particular master, the bodyguards totally dependent on their master’s favour, half quisling and half fanatical lapdog. But something deep within him wanted to trust Russ, a man more like he was than any other he’d yet met, and they had fought the same foe, a fight he’d been resigned to dying in.

‘So be einherji if you were to be slain and return to fight once more. But don’t worry. My lord fights, and when he doesn’t it’s from wisdom rather than cowardice. He has generals because he can’t be everywhere, and war is what we’re best at, the Legiones Astartes and what we delight in, as sure as he has stewards for paper-pushing and monument building. Things never end well when he micromanages. You’ll like Horus, entitled brat that he is; he’s the Emperor’s son. They call him the Warmaster.’

‘What do they call you?’

‘The Executioner,’ he said with a grin.

It hadn’t gone badly, certainly not as badly as it could have. He had felt the same measure of familiarity with this Emperor of Mankind he had with Russ, less inexplicable once he heard the tale of their origins. Throughout, Russ kept an arm slung over his shoulder, both a restraint to Angron and a protective gesture for his--their--lord to see, constantly whispering in his ear explanations, reassurances, stories of battles long past. Russ’ whiskery cheek against his was the only thing that had kept him from charging at the suggestion he let anyone else saw open his skull again.

He would later learn they called Russ plenty of other things: counsellor, reconciler, seducer, consort.

It was strange to be without the Butcher’s Nails. Like he was constantly waiting for cues that didn’t come. His thoughts kept stretching out like he was in a dream of climbing a stair for hours and hours because the plateau he expected never came.

With his brothers and sisters it was easier to remember how he was supposed to react with the ease of familiarity. They still had the Nails--most people couldn’t regrow their brains he’d been told--but it wasn’t like nothing had changed. They were free. What the hell would ever be the same again?

The Imperials that looked like Russ’ warriors but with different colour armour, the War Hounds they called themselves, pissed Angron off at first, trying to treat him like some high-rider lord. It helped when Russ’ Wolves got them pissed-off-their-faces drunk. The one named Khârn could almost carry on a conversation about the pros and cons of axes with chainsaws in them compared to big choppas.

He was just fine where he was, watching and laughing as Nell played tag with Cerno and Dondor around and sometimes over Captain Shinnargen, drinking something stronger than he’d ever had before so he could feel hints of it. The lingering pain in his temples of flesh knitting was practically a caress. He almost worried about when the bandages were ready to come off. How did you know you were alive without the background pain of life? Already he was twitchy without the usual occasional muscle spasms.

Not that he wanted the past back. He had rebelled and fought all that time in the wilderness for a future like this. He just wasn’t sure what to do with it yet, and it was disconcerting when the uncertainty made him angry but the anger didn’t spiral in a flood of released combat hormones.

‘How do you feel about sleeping in a real bed tonight?’ Russ’ breath was warm and wet in his ear. He’d been closer before, but he was positioning himself with more intent just then, in Angron’s space but not too close.

‘You want to fuck?’

‘That too.’ Russ’ smile was hot but friendly. No demands, no expectation of repayment for favours rendered, just the sort of offer his brothers and sisters made among each other after they collapsed in piles like puppies.


	4. Curze

Judicial psykers. Because this AU is more psyker-friendly with the Emperor keeping a close and personal eye on the Thousand Sons. So Adeptus Arbites is competing with Adeptus Astra Telepathica for a lot of the weak empathic or telepathic psykers from across the Imperium, and there are more of them in circulation because they're not being lynched so much. Because Curze is in charge and crime to him is something he sees psychically. How could you judge someone without knowing completely all that they are and all that they have done?

So here with have laws that are reasonable well put together (by Guilliman and the like, not to mention better living conditions from their social programs reducing sheer desperation), and harshly but scrupulously fairly enforced, especially harshly in that special Night Haunter way when it comes to judicial corruption. The legal system is not prone to making basic factual error of events or motivation because they use sanctioned psykers as a matter of course. That hardly fixes all problems, but it is a start towards justice Konrad Curze can approve of, Konrad rather than the monster.


	5. In Which Monarchia Does Not Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Monarchia doesn't happen because Leman and the Emperor get their d/s posturing out of the way privately, then the Emperor presumably goes and yells at Lorgar the normal way until they get things handled in a way they can both live with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emperor/Russ, Lorgar [R]

Leman was unusually bold today, but he was making a point as much with manner as with the words themselves.

‘I’m not saying Lorgar is right, my jarl. I’m asking why you’d expect him or anyone else to head your weak words when you’re building an empire to worship you all in name. You have them curse at you rather than the old gods, you let the fanatics and sycophants be promoted. You want all of humanity to grovel at your feet as your thralls and pay your tributes and follow your laws, but how dare anyone call it worship?’

Leman straddled his hips, predatory and purposeful as he looked down at him.

Most of their arguments happened naked, because true arguments were for private time, and private time was rare and precious enough that they were not in the habit of wasting time getting skin against skin when they had it. Challenging. A challenge they both knew couldn’t be ignored.

Leman didn’t understand anything. Not what gods were, not really. Not how dangerous they were and how dangerous being caught in their realm was. Not that godhood could be a trap, a cage. He didn’t even know Lorgar that well; the other man was from the primarch project, but not even a warrior.

Leman had the strength of a glacier, the force when he went for the kill like the crash of a tsunami upon shore. The Emperor pined him easily, pined him with sheer will that could outshine the stars. He pressed the Wolf King down, forced him still, displayed the sheer depths of his dominance until his vassal would whine like a puppy; their real communication was never really in words.

Leman didn’t try to fight physically, but his mind was honed to a weapon as well. He did not fight but he would not yield gracefully, would not consent, leaving that stark reality between them. _Will you take me against my will?_ Leman challenged even in his submission: would his jarl turn on a comrade who spoke what he believed to be true words in good faith just because it wasn’t what he wanted to hear? Would he tolerate only praise, yet turn on any who gave that praise too zealously if he felt them an embarrassment?

The light of amusement in his eyes was fake; it watchfulness, verily. Leman was genuinely unsure what would happen so he waited, accepting that whatever would would. He had stated his case and made his dare.

Leman’s calm waiting helped. So did the instinctive knowledge of what he was waiting for, what he trusted: that his jarl valued his counsel, that censoring him would be the act of one paranoid and rabid while backing down would only increase his respect. The victor could do whatever he wanted, that was taken for granted, but to treat a beloved friend like a defeated foe would be a deep rejection. He trusted that his lover cared for him as freely as Leman loved in turn, even though he should have known better, knowing that he’d never put personal affections above the Great Plan.

‘I’m still angry at Lorgar.’

Leman sighed in relief, now able to do so, to fill his lungs to their full capacity, and leaned up to lick at his Emperor’s jaw apologetically, though neither of them quite apologised or felt they should. ‘Give him what he should be doing then, what monuments he should build. He’s never going to be a Perturabo or a Dorn, building functional things, or a Fulgrim adding ornaments in between implementing total quality management, or for that matter someone whose judgement can be trusted. But make proper use of him.’

‘I’m still angry at you too.’

Leman knew that for a lie, or at least only a mild grumpiness, because he returned to their familiar argument, ‘Is the centre of the Imperium mankind or you?’ A part of the Emperor’s mind was already mulling over spiritual beliefs of the Imperium, trying to decided where he’d gone wrong balancing between being too vague and too specific around himself, how to dial back from being the spiritual centre of the Imperium as he’d retreated from being the military centre without leaving a gaping hole when he was without someone like Horus to be his regent in that aspect, what new narrative he could farm out to Lorgar and the iterators.

The Emperor eventually interrupted the thorough licking of his face in favour of kisses instead and pulling Leman up to run hands through his wild mane. If neither of them mentioned outright that the Emperor stroked his lover’s hair more gently than usual while Leman rode him or that Leman buried himself against his chest even though he did have room to move further apart, well, they never apologised but that had never really been how they communicated.


	6. Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russ is a flirt and Dorn has only the slightest idea what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorn/Russ/Emperor, PG-13, WIP

Russ was a flirt. This annoyed Dorn. It was unprofessional, and Russ took more liberties with his person and personal space than Dorn considered permissible.

“Treat me with respect or we’ll need to settle this on the duelling field.”

“I’d still respect you in the morning.” Russ grinned undaunted.

“I’d prefer it today.”

Russ shrugged, a generous expression upsetting braids and his wolves, like he knew something Dorn didn’t. “Do you want to fight?”

“Get your armour.”

“I don’t need it.”

It occurred to him Russ might be tricking him out of his own armour, but honour demanded it of him. Of the few other primarchs he’d met, they’d tolerated the cold, but only Russ exalted in it. His furs couldn’t have been adequate, to anyone but an iceworlder.

Dorn struck first. Part of him wanted to hit Russ. Russ danced away, watching, measuring. _Is that who you are?_ Dorn asked. _All bark, no bite?_ It made him angry to be toyed with, to think he was being bothered by a coward.

Then Russ’ grin turned predatory and he struck. No probes of Dorn’s defences for him, no strike and fade looking for another opening. He used his sword with all the grace of an axe, but he put all his weight behind it. He pushed and pushed and pushed, fierce and predatory, a storm behind him.

Dorn knew with certainty he was going to lose. He was, he still believed, a better fighter. He might well win in the future. But he’d never fought a primarch before, anyone who even approached his level, and Russ had.

Dorn fought still. Russ pushed him back. For a moment, he wondered if his sword would strike home and there would be no later. Intellectually that didn’t seem likely, but nothing of Russ spoke of holding back.

Pushing him against the wall, Russ lunged. Dorn didn’t blink, didn’t look away, but Russ used his teeth rather than his sword.

Dorn wouldn’t have been surprised if Russ had ripped out his throat, but he didn’t. Not that he was gentle—he drew blood and tore into muscle. Dorn gasped in pain... and something else as Russ pinned him between his body and the wall and pressed a leg between his.

His body reacted in primal, instinctive ways. Accept your loss and submit. Show your belly. He tilted his throat back to give Russ better access.

The Wolf King pulled back, too soon (and where had that thought come from), and licked his blood-stained teeth. “Oh, he’s going to like you.”

He sauntered off, firelight and shadow playing in his red hair. Dorn was left mystified about why he’d stopped, and snapping at himself about what else he wanted Russ to do anyway.

*

Russ made no attempt to seek him out after their fight, but he watched and Dorn looked away, hoping he looked like he was flushing in anger, not blushing.

Horus took his leave before the Emperor returned from surveying the outer reaches of the Inwit system. A primarch was busy, the Emperor’s son and chief general most of all. (The phrase “Ew, I don’t even want to think about it, Leman” may have been uttered in his presence before Horus left the system quickly, but Dorn wasn’t sure what that was about.)

The tension built between them. The electric current that was Russ made him snappish; Inwit was inclined to blizzards, not thunderstorm.

It was a relief when the storm broke, at some signal Dorn couldn’t guess.

“Drink with me.”

“Why?”

“The night is cold.” His eyes said, _You want this,_ and damn him, Dorn did.

Russ didn’t waste time beating around the bush, drinking from Dorn’s mouth as often as his own cup. Dorn shivered at Russ’ teeth nipping his lips, looming over him, lowering him to the warm furs of his bed.

He groaned in approval at Russ running his teeth (fangs) down his throat, leaving bites and bruises behind and lapping at them with wet strokes of his tongue. And in frustration as Russ didn’t go further. _So eager for him to get your trousers off,_ he complained to himself, but it didn’t help the fact he really did want his hands on him even more than he had.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m waiting,” Russ corrected.

Before Dorn could ask what for, he became aware of another presence. It was the sort of presence that made it impossible to believe he could ever had been unaware of, yet he hadn’t noticed a door opening or Russ’ wolves stirring from the mouth of the cave he carved around himself.

“Are you now?” asked the Emperor in a voice Dorn heard more with his mind than his ears, smooth as honey and immovable as the mountains.

“I want him, but of course I wouldn’t take what’s yours or pre-empt you, my jarl. I was just testing the water.” Russ wasn’t defensive or apologetic in the least, totally confident he wasn’t being genuinely censored.

It was strange to see Russ’ body language change so completely as the Emperor drew him to him with a hand in his hair. The arrogant, aggressive Wolf King so pliant and submissive, so eager to please.

Dorn had never been more turned on in his life.

Oh, he’d heard the rumours. There were always salacious rumours, someone said to have gotten some position or favour on his or her back. He’d thought those calling Russ the Emperor’s consort had meant that.

They were having a conversation Dorn wasn’t privy to. Maybe in the way of long-time acquaintances everywhere, in the angle of Russ’ gaze and the turn of the corners of his mouth; maybe a silent conversation Dorn couldn’t quite overhear more than whispers of.

Russ chuckled aloud. “You and your kink for submissive iceworlders.” It was strange to hear Russ describe himself that way, but after that display he’d just seen, well. The tales said Russ had fought, in the beginning. He couldn’t imagine it. It was one thing to fight Russ, who his instincts told him was no more than his equal, but it had been the most natural thing in the world to bend knee to the Master of Mankind.

Russ still watched him with open, visceral hunger. When the Emperor tilted up Dorn’s chin to meet his eyes, Dorn couldn’t have called up a single detail about him except the absolute dominion there, the will to rewrite the galaxy utterly. Everything genecoded into his being to submit to.

“Yes,” he said, an answer to an unspoken, formality of a question. A plea.


	7. Genderswap WIP snippet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fem!Emperor/Russ, they were having an argument about Magnus and gender roles or something)

Leman Russ’ lover was always overwhelming and powerful against him--this was his jarl as well as his bedmate after all--ancient and wise and nameless, something that made his very essence want to submit and show his belly and trail after like a dog, not to mention argue with as general to lord and crush their lips and skin together. And at the moment Leman’s lover was all of those things, and undeniably female.

Not just the body, though that was. Smooth skin, glossy black hair longer than it had been, soft and wet in all the right places, the heavy breasts and thighs of a mature woman who had borne many children and always had enough to eat, and no less strength in the muscle and bone below that. The scent was female--female hormones in sweat, feminine perfumes, a woman’s familiar lust. Leman knew perfectly well that sight didn’t really see his lover with his eyes, but he liked to laugh that he never got the smell perfectly matched to the body. What his nose told him he was smelling was what was put in his mind, the projected persona and force of will he saw as scents. So his lover did not merely look or smell like a woman, but was pressing it into his mind like the weight of the deep ocean upon his chest, the very essence of womanhood, motherhood,


End file.
